Brave façade: Having lost her mother in February, 11-year-old Megan Brittain faces her own battle with cancer
Each step toward the barber’s chair is slow and deliberate, betrayed by only the slightest limp. Megan Brittain glances at the spilled clumps of hair littering the floor of Natalie’s Styling Studio. Once belonging to her cousin, the hair allows Megan to see what lies ahead. Careful not to slip, she climbs into the chair, her feet dangling inches from the floor. It’s the same chair her mother, Sharon Brittain, sat in years before when she too had her head shaved. Natalie Cantrell snaps a purple sash, like a super hero’s cape, around Megan’s neck. “Ready?” Cantrell asks, as the clippers clatter to life. Megan nods and stares into the mirror, her small hands clutching the armrests as a half-dozen family members swarm with digital cameras zooming, clicking and flashing. With dark circles beneath her pale blue eyes, Megan shrinks beneath the weight of expectation. But a single question brightens everything. “You still want that Mohawk?” Cantrell asks. “YEAH,” Megan says, sitting up tall in the chair. It’s the first time she’s spoken since sitting down. But more than an answer, this is a promise that everything is going to be OK. In July, Megan Brittain was diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma, cancerous tumors that grow on muscle tissue. She has since begun chemotherapy and radiation treatment at Children’s Hospital in Birmingham. Megan is 11, but she’s not innocent to the ravages of cancer. She watched her mother, Sharon Brittain, battle it for seven years before she died in February. Six months. That’s how long Megan, her father, Gary, and brothers, Ian and Bradley, were allowed to grieve before facing the specter of cancer all over again. But, this fight will be different. Where Sharon’s diagnosis was dire from the start, Megan has hope. According to the American Cancer Society, the prognosis for those diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma depends on factors including the location, type and size of the tumor, its response to treatment and whether it has spread. “Overall, two-thirds of children with rhabdomyosarcoma will be cured if they have the proper treatment,” according to the ACS Web site. “Younger children (but not infants) have a better outlook than older ones.” This is why Gary Brittain is careful to distinguish the difference between the type of cancer that Megan has and the one that claimed his wife’s life. “As I’ve said to Megan, Dr. (Lee) Hilliard told us that her cancer is curable,” he says. “Nobody ever told Sharon that.” ‘Horrible coincidence’ Megan started playing softball just to have “something to do,” a way to keep her mind busy after her mother died. She loved to pitch, but most of all, she loved to slide. In her first year, Megan made the Jacksonville Parks and Recreation’s All-Star Team. “During that whole time, I was running and jumping all over the place,” says Megan, in a living room recliner with her feet propped up. “I was fine.” But during a base-running drill, Megan hit home plate and felt her ankle turn “a little funny.” At first, she shrugged it off as nothing more than a sprained ankle. Though she was in pain and limped badly, Megan talked her father out of going to the doctor, fearing she’d be sidelined for the all-star practices and miss playing in the game. She didn’t complain, making it through the first weekend in July and the tournament. But the ankle wouldn’t heal and was soon coupled with back pain. “We just thought the back pain came from her compensating for the ankle injury,” says Gary Brittain. “We really had no idea there was anything seriously wrong.” Eventually Megan visited her pediatrician, who suggested an orthopedist, who in turn recommended physical therapy. While the ankle improved, the back got worse. “Nothing made it better,” Gary says, sitting in a living room rocking chair next to his daughter. “Plus, Megan went from running the neighborhood to spending almost all her time on the couch, so we knew something was wrong.” Megan was also crying herself to sleep at night. Unable to get an appointment with a pediatric neurologist, Gary and Megan went to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital in Birmingham, where Megan was admitted. After an MRI found a mass in her lower back, doctors performed a biopsy. “While she’s in recovery from all that, the oncologist comes in with the results of the biopsy ... cancer,” Gary says, his voice flat. “As a parent, there’s no way to respond. It’s all your worst fears confirmed.” A second MRI and biopsy revealed another mass, this time on the bottom of Megan’s right foot. In her 14 years at Children’s Hospital, it’s only the second time Lee Hilliard, Megan’s doctor, has seen a patient with two primary tumors. “If Megan had just one or the other, it wouldn’t be all that unusual,” says Dr. Hilliard, associate professor pediatrics in the division pediatric hematology and oncology at Children’s Hospital. “Factor in that her mother died of breast cancer ... you can’t help but worry.” Megan began an “aggressive,” 54-week chemotherapy regimen in early August. There’s only one week during the rest of the year when she and her father won’t drive to Birmingham for treatment, including Sept. 5 — Megan’s 11th birthday. “But really it’s OK,” she says. “They give you cake, and you just sit there and watch TV while the medicine goes in. It’s only later that the trouble starts.” |
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Interstate 20 can be a lonely road, depending on the destination. Gary Brittain has mapped every mile — first with his wife and now with his youngest child — from his home in Jacksonville to various hospitals for cancer treatments and evaluations. Megan was 3 when Sharon was first diagnosed. She used to crawl into her mother’s bed, as she lay there sick and exhausted from the chemo. They talked until both fell asleep, and Gary carried Megan back to her own bed. But being a witness to cancer and being a survivor are as different as the types of diseases that mother and daughter seemingly share. “You can never really be ready,” Megan says, chewing on a thumbnail. “I’m not as scared because I saw it with Mom, but I’m still scared. It’s a lot different when it’s happening to you.” Doctors plan more tests, but there appears to be “no relationship,” between Sharon’s cancer and Megan’s. “It’s just terrible luck,” Gary says, “a horrible coincidence.” To the outsider, Megan’s age compounds the tragedy, but her youth is one of the reasons that Hilliard is optimistic. “The fortunate thing is that the younger you are the more likely you are to get better,” she says. “Megan’s a fighter. There’s no quit in this child. But she’s under no illusions. “Megan knows she’s got a long, hard road in front of her.” After missing the first week at Kitty Stone Elementary School, where Megan is a fifth-grader, she continues to suffer from nausea and fatigue but makes it to class as often as possible. At school, some students stand and applaud when Megan walks in to PE class. Others offer to carry her books or push her wheelchair. Some simply try not to stare, unsure of what to say. “Nobody’s said ‘cancer,’ like maybe they’re afraid to hurt my feelings or something,” Megan says. “But really, it’s OK. I don’t mind talking about it.” Jennifer Loos, Megan’s teacher, has strong ties to the Brittain family, having taught middle son, Bradley, a few years earlier. She and Megan are in contact via email whenever assignments are missed. “She’s just been a trooper, and the kids for the most part have been unfazed,” she says. “Megan’s trying really hard to act like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t want to be treated any different than anyone else.” Though cancer is the reason Megan’s name appears on hardware store signs and church bulletin prayer lists, it doesn’t buy her a whole lot of slack at home. “One of my jobs as her father is to keep Megan going,” Gary says, his words thick and heavy. “When she doesn’t feel like doing something because she’s sick or tired, I have to make sure she pushes through ... it’s the only way she’ll get better. “We’re doing all we can to keep our lives as normal as possible.” A mother’s courage With Megan by his side, Gary says all the right things. As they talk — and even sometimes laugh — about biopsy scars and chemo sickness, his voice is calm and steady. Moments of profound silence that might otherwise allow Megan’s thoughts to drift down dark paths of uncertainty are interrupted by a funny story. “... But Megan couldn’t help it. Just a little ice cream and she threw up all over the guy.” Though his world has quietly fallen apart, Gary Brittain remains strong. He has to be. Fathers don’t cry, at least not where their children can see. But behind the closed door of his office, Gary, director of the Baptist Campus Ministry at Jacksonville State University, breaks down. The burden that has befallen his family is too much. “I’m still so raw,” he says, “talking about Sharon and now this ... Sometimes it doesn’t seem real.” News — good or bad — travels fast in Jacksonville. Since word spread about Megan, Gary has been asked time and time again how he’s handling it. The answer is as obvious as it impossible to comprehend. “I really just deal with what has to be done next,” he says. “There isn’t any other choice. You do the best you can to be strong for the ones who need it most.” Gary’s office, like that of any proud father, is cluttered with a variety of family photos. A small picture of Sharon watches over him as he types in entries for Megan’s online journal. A recent post, written at 6:30 on the morning of Monday, Sept. 10, is a window into the daily chaos that father and daughter endure together. “We’re at Children’s Hospital now. Megan has been sick eight times since 4 a.m. She is getting fluids and medicine before today’s chemotherapy and has fallen asleep right now. We will be at the hospital until around 1 p.m. “When we got home Megan was still sick. Even the new medicine hasn’t stopped the nausea. She has been one miserable little girl. The medicine is making her sleepy, and sleep is our friend right now. I’m praying she will sleep through the night.” Days like these are where Gary’s emotional blinders are necessary. Whenever Megan gets sick or complains about the pain, rather than coddling, he reminds her of all that Sharon endured. “I’m trying to hold her mother up as a strong example of even when you don’t feel good, you’ve gotta keep pushing though,” he says. “Megan can’t escape the fact that her mother died of cancer and now she’s got cancer, but they aren’t the same thing. “Megan can be cured.” It was spring break of 2000 when 38-year-old Sharon Brittain, then head of the math department at Weaver High School, found a lump in her breast. She immediately began chemotherapy eventually beating the cancer into remission. But three years later, it returned, having spread to Sharon’s right lung. But Sharon never gave up. She scheduled chemo treatments for late Friday afternoons, giving her the weekends to recover from the nausea and teach on Monday. In 2005, on the first day teachers were to report, Sharon got into the van for Gary to drive her to school. As he pulled out of the drive, she got sick and decided to stay home. She never went back to school. In January, she was referred to hospice. In February, at age 45, Sharon Brittain died. Six months later, a new war is being waged in the same Jacksonville beauty shop where Sharon once took a stand. Only this time, it’s her daughter, Megan, who’s making the preemptive strike and shaving her head. But first she has a little fun — the Mohawk. When it’s all done, a fog of hairspray, constant combing and the blow dryer’s whiplash holds Megan’s Mohawk in place. Cantrell takes a step back, allowing her to enjoy the full effect through a hand-held mirror. “Dad, can I keep it?” she says to Gary, who’s watching his daughter through the viewfinder of his digital camera. “Please.” “No,” he says with the tone of a father practiced in the art of gentle rejection. “You know it’ll only end up falling out all over your pillow.” With that, the clippers chew through what’s left of Megan’s hair, leaving only bristles in its wake. When it’s all over, she hops down to a chorus of compliments, running her fingers over where her hair used to be. “It feels weird, but I like it,” she says, grinning.” I wanna go outside and feel the wind on my head.” • For updates and information on Megan, visit her online journal at caringbridge.org/visit/meganbrittain. |
